Birth of a Monster: The Diary of TM Riddle
by Alexandrus W. Pendragon
Summary: Ever wonder what Tom Riddle wrote in his diary before he started writing from it? Ch. 6 and 7 now up.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: All characters, places, etc. are the property of J.K. Rowling, at least so far. If anyone is mine, I'll let you know later.

Birth of a Monster: The Diary of T. M. Riddle

Prologue:

"I don't know how you did it, Riddle, and I don't really care. I'll make you bleed for it just the same!" The old woman nearly shrieked each word, bringing down the cane with a crack to add emphasis occasionally. Her victim, a small boy of about eleven, took each blow and curse without complaint, but returning the woman's own contempt filled glare as she beat him. When he was younger he would cringe and cry when the beatings came, as they inevitably did. When he got a bit older, he had tried to reason with her. After all, it wasn't as if he _meant _to do any of the things he was punished for, they just sort of happened.

Now, however, after eleven long years, he had learned that nothing would stop the miserable old crone once she got started, and nothing he could say, before, during, or after the beatings would make things any better, so he just kept his mouth shut, lest he make them worse. This was easy to do. None of the other children ever spoke to him. He was a nice enough boy, but they all knew the mistress had it out for him, and so wouldn't risk the guilt by association that would come from befriending him.

For the most part, the boy didn't mind the silence. What would he speak to other children about, anyway? From the short discussions he'd had with them, it became obvious (to him at least) that they lived in totally different worlds. He was a tremendously bright young man, but despite his knowledge beyond his years he couldn't put into words the strange feeling of separation he felt from his peers. He was just . . . _different_. So, he simply contented himself with silence. But everyone needs conversation sometimes. And that is what had gotten him into his most recent difficulty.

After being denied anything for too long, a person may seek what they need in the most unlikely and impossible places, places they would never look under other circumstances. So it was for the boy, denied a good conversation for so long. It happened one night, when he was sitting alone on his bunk. The mistress had sent him to bed early, without his supper, when a heavy food plate had leapt, seemingly under its own power, from the table and slammed into the back of her head. With no clear culprit, the young man was immediately found guilty and banished to the empty dormitory. Aching from the hunger, the beating, and the terrible loneliness, the boy simply broke down crying. He cried for the first time in years, cried all the tears he had so long kept back.

"And why does he cry, do you suppossssse?" a voice asked. It was a strange voice, low, barely below a whisper, and sibilant, almost more of a hiss than a voice. They boy kept crying, supposing he had just imagined it.

"Wouldn't you? You saw how that foul mongoose treated him," a second voice replied, this one as strange as the first. 

"Who's there?" the boy called out. If he had known he wasn't alone, he would never have appeared so vulnerable.

"Was he just speaking to usssss?" the first voice asked. 

"Yesssss, I believe he was. Most curioussss," the second replied. 

"You know I can still hear you," the boy said, both annoyed and curious, "So how about you show yourself and tell me who you are?" 

The two voices chuckled. "As the master comandsssss," the first said, and from under his own mattress slithered two long snakes. Where most children (and most adults, for that matter) would have been absolutely terrified, the boy was absolutely fascinated. He had always loved snakes, and the cunning and perilousness they were always said to possess. These two he recognized as rare South Asian vipers, never found in England, and highly venomous. Even so, he leaned closer, partly to get a better look at these two magnificent specimens, and partly to see if these were indeed the owners of the voices he had heard. As he looked carefully at one of the deadly serpents, it seemed to smile at him. Not trusting his own senses, he came in closer still. The snake flicked out its tongue playfully, tickling his nose. The boy smiled, unused to any show of affection from anyone, human or otherwise. "Hello," he whispered, not wanting to frighten off his new friend, "My name is Tom Riddle."

"Greetingssss, Tom Riddle," the snake replied. "I am Sssset, and this is my companion, Reshhhh."

"Pleased to meet you," Tom said to the other snake.

"No, dear boy, the pleasure isssss mine," the creature said.

As odd of a boy as Tom Riddle was, even he would not normally be one to address himself to snakes. But after living in silence for as long as he had, Tom was just relieved to have people to talk to, even if they happened to be a pair of very dangerous snakes. So they just sat there, the three of them, as Tom told them all about himself. The snakes mostly listened, recognizing that the boy desperately needed to talk. He had just finished telling his new friends all about the Mistress of the Orphanage, and how awful she was to him, when the clatter of footsteps on the stairs had signaled that the rest of the boys were coming to bed.

"Foul beasssst," Sssset had said. "Don't worry, Tom, we'll see she gets what she deserves."

The offending plate must have been particularly heavy, because the Mistress carried a lump on her head and a foul temper well into the next day. No one was safe from her wrath, and to most the swish of a cane meant relief, for it meant that the awful thing was too busy with someone else to come down on them.

Tom, of course, had no such luck. As the Old Woman's most loathed charge, he was also the victim of an overwhelming number of her moods that day. After a blow so savage that it sent him to the ground, the boy lost his cool. "You miserable old wench," he spat, "I hope you die in agony like the animal you are!" It slipped out so quickly he couldn't stop himself, so it took a moment for it to register that he had hadn't just spoken English. Instead, the words had come out as a low hiss, like the sound of a snake. What on earth, he thought to himself, what was that? Why, _how _could that have happened?

His thoughts were interrupted by a scream of terror. He looked up to see the mistress cowering in a corner, holding her cane in a defensive position, while two familiar forms circled her. Sssset and Reshhhh were stalking the old woman, their eyes aflame with contempt and anger. "Pathetic human sssscum," Sssset said, bearing his fangs, "how does it feel to be the prey?" 

The mistress didn't answer of course, nor did any of the other children, who watched transfixed from a safe distance. To them, of course, it sounded like nothing more than an angry hiss. Tom, however, grinned in glee. Yes, you foul old woman, he thought, how does it feel?

The dangerous serpents tormented their quarry for five long minutes, circling, hissing, and striking, almost playfully. The mistress, however, was deadly serious, and not one to be trifled with. Not even by a pair of pit vipers. Reshhhh nipped at her heal, enough to draw blood, but injecting no venom. He withdrew just a split second too slowly, and the old woman leapt to the advantage, stamping down hard with her foot to pin the hapless snake before dashing his brain out with her cane. Sssset, enraged, struck forth, ready to kill to avenge his friend, but the prey was faster than she looked, darting out of the way before landing the second snake with a blow nearly hard enough to split him in two.

As she lifted her head in triumph, she fixed Tom with a murderous glare. A look of horror and sadness had replaced his earlier glee, but she had seen the smile. She saw everything. She seized him by the ear, and dragged him off to her office.

Now, ten whole minutes later, the only emotion on the boy's face was hatred as the blows kept raining down, hatred for this foul, despicable, evil thing who had made his life a living hell for these eleven long years, who had beaten him, cursed him, and spit upon him. And who had just killed the only two creatures who had ever cared.

"You are a sorry, miserable, skulking little piece of trash, Riddle," she snarled. "And the worst part is you can't even accept it. I see it in your eyes. You seem to think because you have a little charm, a little book smarts, that you are somehow a cut above, somehow better than anyone else. When of course, you are not. That's why your miserable father left you on our doorstep, Riddle. As despicable as he was, even he could see how much more despicable you are. And even if he couldn't, _I _can, and so can all of those families who come looking for new little boys. And that, Riddle, is why someday, soon with any luck, you will die, unwept and unremembered. If you could just accept that, maybe you could leave this world with a little dignity."

Again, he sat alone in the dormitory, but this time he kept his feelings strictly in check. No one alive will listen anyway, he thought. Maybe the evil old witch was right, he thought to himself, maybe I really am worthless. Maybe I really will die…forgotten. He shuddered at the thought. What could possibly be worse than such a death? He felt tears building in his eyes, but he fought them off, turning his face to stone.

"No," he hissed aloud, to no one in particular. "That fate will never be mine. I shall write my name in the very stars, and miserable insects like her will tremble to see it. I. WILL. FIND. A. WAY."

And at that very moment, as if hearing his promise, an owl glided into his window on silent wings, with a letter tied to its claws. 


	2. 20 July

Disclaimer: Most of the people and places (Tom Riddle, Albus Dumbledore, Diagon Alley, Hogwarts, etc.) as well as the text of the Hogwarts letter, are actually the property of JK Rowling (who is not me.) The quotation from the bard is, of course, William ShakespeareÕs. Anything that is peculiarly mine, I will let you know about.

Thanks much to DescendingAngel for my first ever review! 

20 July

I have to write. If for no other reason than to prove that it really happened, that it wasnÕt just a dream. Where even to begin? Well, to start off, my name is Thomas Marvolo Riddle, Tom for my father, Marvolo for my grandfather, neither of whom I ever knew. In fact, I never knew anything much about my family before today. But IÕm getting ahead of myself.

I am eleven years old, as of last November, and I have spent nearly that entire time in the St. ClaireÕs School for Orphaned Boys and Girls here in London. It has not been an easy life, though I suppose that of an orphan never is. Mine, however, always seemed much worse than even the average orphan. I could never relate to my fellows, never talk to them. I just felt like I didnÕt belong among them, like I was somehowÉmore, or better. I suppose some might say that makes me a terrible person, but I must dissent. I have known truly terrible people, and loneliness pales in comparison to their sins.

In any case, I feel as if I have been vindicated. Unless this has all been a dream, which remains to be seen, I am very different from everyone IÕve ever known. Yesterday night, an owl flew through my window. This would have been a strange enough occurrence, without throwing in the letter it carried tied to its leg. I suppose I should let it speak for itself. I am copying its complete contents below, just to make sure itÕs really there.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Headmaster: Armando Dippet, Order of Merlin Second Class, High Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Vice-Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. Of Wizards.

Dear Mr. Riddle,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of the necessary books and equipment. 

Term begins on September 1. We await your owl no later than July 31.

Yours Sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

Deputy Headmaster

PS: Since our records indicate that you have been raised by non magical folk (muggles) and as such may not have access to a post owl of your own, the owl who delivered your letter has been instructed to carry back your reply.

I donÕt know how many times I read and reread the letter before the delivering owl hooted its irritation. Regardless, it wasnÕt enough to dispel the surreal feeling of the whole thing. I was almost sad to see the post owl leave. It was, after all, living proof of what the letter said. With it gone, how could I be sure it was really happening. IÕm still not sure itÕs really happening! But, I sent it off with my reply, such as it was. Having never corresponded with a wizarding school, or anyone else for that matter, I wasnÕt quite sure what to say.

When the owl had gone, I went through the other materials enclosed in the letter, supply lists including things like cauldrons, robes, _magic wands!_ I started to lose hope when I realized that, to my knowledge, there was nowhere to buy a magic wand anywhere in the world, much less in London.

My depression was interrupted by the return of the post owl. Around its leg this time was a short note, acknowledging my reply and directing me to an establishment called the Leaky Cauldron on the following day or Òat my earliest possible convenience.Ó It promised that, providing I came between now and August 1, a school representative would be there to assist me. I resolved to go on the very next day. Although I doubted that the mistress of the orphanage would never let me go if I asked, I was pretty sure she would hardly care if I just disappeared, so I planned to beg forgiveness rather than ask permission.

I didnÕt sleep at all that night. I wasnÕt going to risk waking up and forgetting, or finding out I had imagined to whole thing. Besides, I was just too excited. I set out early, so as not to be caught, and made my way to the address given for the Leaky Cauldron. I was rather disappointed when I first found it. It was nothing more than a common dive! But the people inside were far from common. Though they were hardly as I had imagined them, these people were unmistakably magical. I felt rather in over my head. A tall man with a long beard came to my rescue. He asked if I was a new Hogwarts student. I told him I was, and gave him my name. He checked it off a list before identifying himself as Albus Dumbledore, transfigurations professor (I didnÕt understand that at the time) and the author of the letter I had received. He told me that I was in quite early, and so was the first new student of the day, and so would have to wait while the other students arrived before I could begin. 

We made small talk as we waited. At first he did the talking, being as overwhelmed by my new surroundings as I was. He told me a bit about the school, the tavern, and the magical world in general. I hung on his every word, eager to absorb as much knowledge as I could. When I became more comfortable with where I was, I started to talk in return. I told him about my life in the orphanage and what little I knew of my family (he seemed to smile at this, as if he knew more than he was letting on.) On the whole, I suppose he was nice enough, if a bit on the sentimental (by which I mean, shallow) side. Something about him put me off, though. The feeling that he knew more than he was letting on, and that what he knew was important. Combined with the feeling that he was examining me under a microscope every time I met his eyes, I just didnÕt feel good about the man.

The other new students filed in one by one of the course of the next half hour. All of them were as overawed as I had been, but it gladdened me to see that none of them recovered from their awe as quickly as I had. But probably none of them had lived as I had, alone in the midst of many. All of them came with living parents, at least one. 

At about 8, when an appreciable group had gathered, Dumbledore herded us out into what seemed to be a back alley. A tap of his wand, however, changed a simple brick wall into a gateway into my new world. Beyond was a place called Diagon Alley, filled with shops filled with all things I would need for school, and infinitely more. What did the bard say? ÒOh brave new world, that has such people in it!Ó 

Our first stop was Gringotts bank, a place run by goblins of all things, so that they could all change their money (it turns out we use different currency than the muggles.) This had me worried, having no money as I did. Dumbledore must have seen my concern, however, because he informed me that he had already taken the liberty of withdrawing a tidy sum from the account my mother had left in my name. I was shocked, to be sure, to discover not only that my mother was a witch, but that she had left me at least enough money to get through school. When I had recovered, I asked Dumbledore if he had known my mother. He replied, sadly I noticed, that he had, though not well, and that she was a good woman, by far the finest to come from her family. I was tempted to ask why he hadnÕt come out and said so in the first place, but I thought it best not to leave a bad first impression with one of my future teachers.

With the money changing complete, the Professor gave the group a brief description of the lay out of the alley and where they could find the shops they would need. After that, all the other students left with their respective parents to do their own shopping. This left me (rather uncomfortably) with Dumbledore, though I suppose his presence was really an advantage, seeing as the various parents were at least as awed as their children by their surroundings. We stopped in various shops to buy robes, a cauldron, potions ingredients, books, and finally, a magic wand. This was quite an experience. The shop owner, one Mr. Ollivander, was kind enough to explain some basics about wands: each is unique, made of a different wood of a different length, and containing some core magical ingredient, and each wand is specially suited to one and only one wizard. In his words, Òthe wand chooses the wizard,Ó though I didnÕt really understand that. What was clear was that finding the right wand could be time consuming. We must have gone through fifty different wands before we found the right one (yew, 13 and a half inches, containing a single phoenix feather.) There must have been something unusual about this wand, because Ollivander shared a peculiar look with Dumbledore before mentioning how odd of a wand it for one of my family to have a phoenix feather wand. Dumbledore hustled me out of the store before I could ask what he meant, and wouldnÕt give me a straight answer anyway.

What he did give me was my ticked for the school train, as well as a time when I could meet yet another school official if I needed an escort to the platform. I thanked him, and took my leave. Before I left, though, I dropped by Gringotts to change some of my money to muggle currency. 

This I used to buy this diary at a simple variety store on Vauxhall Rd. on the way home. I had seen any number of diaries in the bookstore on Diagon Alley, but still being so new to magic, I thought it best to be cautious. Besides, IÕm not asking for it to be anything fancy. Just written proof of what IÕve experienced today. LetÕs hope itÕs still here in the morning.

T. M. Riddle 


	3. 22 July 31 August

Sorry for the wait for this update, and thanks a million to everyone whoÕs reviewed so far. Your criticism and praise have gone a long way to keeping me motivated.

Sabrina Rosalie- IÕve always found Tom very fascinating as well. Normally, I donÕt like it when authors make villains sympathetic by giving them a bad upbringing or what not, but as you said, he must hate muggles for some reason. Thanks for the settings tip too. /blush/ Newbie mistake.

Chris- Yes, I made a serious effort to make Tom sound as adult as possible. He would indeed have to be phenomenally brilliant to earn such high praise from Dumbledore (himself a brilliant Hogwarts grad, and terribly brilliant.) If nothing else, it saved me the trouble of remembering what 11 year olds think like. I figured a brilliant 11 year old would sound like an adult. Now my only worry is figuring out what brilliant 16 year olds think like!

DescendingAngel- First impressions are everything, which is why I wanted Dumbledore to come up so soon. I made Tom wary of him even from the get go, as you mentioned, because I figured if he really respected Dumbledore, things might have turned out very differently. Interesting path of speculation.

Ice Angel-This chapter will be much darker than the last, and things will become progressively more noir as the story goes on. The ending will be _very _dark. As to the weird symbols, thatÕs just how the site reacts to my documents, so IÕm not sure how to fix it. Suggestions are welcome, though.

Disclaimer: Tom Riddle, Albus Dumbledore, Hogwarts, and many other people and places that you will no doubt recognize, are the property of JK Rowling.

22 July

Well, as it turns out thereÕs been no need to prove any of the events of the last two days to myself. The absolutely charming mistress of the orphanage has seen fit to remind me every waking hour of the day. I canÕt believe I was so stupid! I should have thought ahead, should have planned some lie, some excuse to give to her. IÕm just glad that I could leave most of my school things behind in storage at the Leaky Cauldron (another debt I owe to Dumbledore, sadly, since he realized even before I did that I wouldnÕt be able to carry a fully packed trunk four miles across the city.) 

I could not, however, be parted from the books. I stayed up all night that night after I last wrote, reading through them, trying to absorb as much as I could. Honestly, I had expected to struggle with it more. Granted, IÕve never struggled with learning facts and figures, but this was something totally new and foreign: spells, charms, incantations, transfigurations, jinxes, and the history of my new world. Yet it seemed so familiar yet compelling, as if I had grown up hearing all of it, like learning to read for the first time after knowing for years how to speak. So wrapped up in my new world, I had not given any thought to explanations and appearance.

And the next morning I wished I had. I stayed up so late that I slept past dawn, and the mistress cannot abide those who sleep late, especially when they happen to be me. Nothing quite like a crack across the back with her accursed cane to wake one up. Things only got worse, of course. After the ÒGet up, Riddle, you worthless lump,Ó beating came the ÒWhere were you yesterday?Ó beating. I tried to lie and say I had actually been there and that she had just missed me, but she wouldnÕt believe a word of it. After the second beating, she told me to get my things and move into the room (closet, more like) next to her office, where I would be locked in round the clock. Well, not quite round the clock. She also has me scouring pots and scrubbing floors. 

At least I have my privacy, of course. When she finally lets me off (usually late) I can read to my heartÕs content (I managed to sneak my books in along with my other things), as long as IÕm quiet and donÕt tip her off. If I can just keep a low profile until September the first, this may actually turn out to be a fortunate turn of events. More fortunate than it already has been, that is. This raises another problem, of course: how _am _I going to bet out of here when the time comes? Will the school send someone if I donÕt come in time? Can I take the chance that they will, or will I have to find a way out on my own? Well, I have more than a month to figure it out, and figuring is one of my strong suits.

30 July

So far IÕve been able to stay out of trouble. I think the mistress may only have reacted as she did because she was still angry about the incident with Reshhhh and Sssset. IÕve been thinking about them a great deal this last week or so, remembering how wonderful it was, if only for less than a day, to have someone to talk to, someone to listen. How I miss them, especially now. I still spend my nights reading. I almost wish I had brought my wand with me from Diagon Alley, to practice some of what IÕm learning. If nothing else, that would have made escape easier. I already know a charm for opening locks and doors. But then, that would have meant keeping a low profile impossible, and also permanently remove me from the only home I have (awful as it is.)

Anyway, my reading, as I have said, is progressing wonderfully. In fact, it is just about the only thing sustaining me through the work and the solitude. I canÕt wait for school to begin. Every new bit of knowledge, every fact, every spell, seems to be a drop of warmth and happiness in my heart, a piece falling into place, slowling building me up from Tom Riddle, the orphan, the no one, to someone else, someone people will remember, someone people will resepect. ItÕs as though my entire life to this point has been nothing but a prelude, preparation for what is going to begin in a month and two days, for my real life. Great things are waiting for me. I can feel them.

5 August

I donÕt know what to do. I just donÕt know what to do. She searched my room, when I was cleaning the dinner dishes. She found the books. IÕve never seen her so angry. She looked absolutely insane with rage. IÕve never had a beating like that one. IÕm still bleeding, in fact. She demanded an explanation, so I told her something resembling the truth, that I was contacted by the boarding school one of my relatives had attended, and that the reason I had been gone that day was to buy what I needed, using the money left me by that relative. She seemed to regain control of herself, then, but she was far from finished. She congratulated me, in a very cold, very dangerous voice, and then told me that she regretted putting such a promising young scholar as myself to work scrubbing dishes. No, from now on I would remain in my new room all day long. I could live with that, I told her defiantly. Further, she said, since I could afford such nice books (donÕt know what she was talking about, they were second hand) then I neednÕt burden the orphanage food budget more than necessary. I told her I could live with that too. She didnÕt take this well. I got another beating, and then was dismissed. Then, I made my worst mistake yet: I asked for my books back. She just smiled at me, a twisted, evil smile, and locked them in her cabinet. And then beat me again.

In retrospect, IÕm just happy that I hid this journal more effectively than the rest of my books. Also in retrospect, IÕm surprised she asked me why I had books, but didnÕt seem to care that they were _spell_ books. Probably canÕt read, the foul cow. Not that it would have mattered to her. All that mattered was that they made me happy, and that just wouldnÕt do at all. What am I going to do?

17 August

I must endure. Though it try my healthy, my strength, and my very sanity, I must endure. I have seen nothing but the inside of this accursed room for nearly a fortnight now. I donÕt even see much of her. SheÕs down to feeding me and letting me out to the toilet once a day (in the same trip, lest I feel too lucky.) and none of the others would care less what happens to me. Someone at the school is bound to take notice eventually. I just have to wait. I must endure.

23 August

Feeling weak, but I must write. Must write before the thoughts buzzing in my head drive me insane. Stopped feeding me 5 days ago. Toilet now every other day, and I get a beating every time she opens the door. SheÕs getting angrier every day. Why? 

Losing hope. The warmth is gone. Maybe I did dream it all. What other explanation is there? The world is foul, cruel, and it will have nothing to do with me. IÕm dying. I can feel it. IÕm going to die in this tiny room, and end like my mother, with not even my own blood remembering my name.

31 August

Salvation! ThereÕs no other word to describe it. I only got weaker and weaker in the time from my last entry. Then, suddenly, yesterday, she dragged me into her office. I waited for her to get out the cane, and to beat out the last of my life. But she didnÕt. She called for food and ordered me to eat. I didnÕt know what to do except obey, being careful not to shock my stomach. As I ate, she told me that I was to finish eating and wash up, and that I would be going to school in 2 days. Just in time! I couldnÕt believe my luck! And then. Then, she unlocked her cabinet and gave me back my books. My books! My wonderful books! I had to stay in the closet, but it didnÕt matter. I had my books back, and I was going to Hogwarts again. The dream became true!


	4. 1 September

A/NÑSorry for the long silence. Technical difficulties. To make up for the lost time, IÕll be adding 2 new chapters. IÕm also posting a new fic, ÒAs Befits a Gryffindor,Ó so feel free to have a look at it if you like. It has a very different format than this one.

Ice-Snow-Angel: Thanks for the formatting tip, and thanks again for the reviews! I popped over to your profile and looked at your list. My internet problems meant I havenÕt been able to read most of them yet, but I recognized a few old favorites.

DescendingAngel: All I can say is, yes, we will get a full explanation for the MistressÕs behavior, but it will be a long time in coming. ItÕs not just _deus ex machina_, if thatÕs what youÕre wondering. And thank you again for reading. 

In all honestly, I struggled with this chapter a great deal and donÕt like it very much. I may end up taking it down and starting from scratch. I would especially appreciate any constructive criticism down that alley. Thanks!

Disclaimer: Tom Riddle, Albus Dumbledore, Hogwarts, Diagon Alley, the Sorting Hat, and most of the other people and places are the property of JK Rowling.

1 September

Just a day. ThatÕs as long as itÕs been. Just a single day. And now, everything is different. Last night, I sat in a broom closet, starving, dying, with little hope. And now, I write on my own bed, in a huge room, in a magical castle, hundreds of miles from the orphanage, and all the pain it contained. I thought before that my life had changed. Now I know it to be true. 

The day began before dawn. The mistress woke me up before dawn to get me cleaned up and ready. I have no idea what the urgency was, and she was in no mood to discuss it. Ever since our little meeting that night, IÕve been trying to figure out the reason behind it, what could cause such a change of heart. No, not a change of heart. A change of mind perhaps. She is no longer mistreating me, sheÕs let me come to school, but I look into her eyes and nothing has changed. There is no kindness there, only contempt. No, I take it back. There is something new there. Fear. For eleven years IÕve been looking into those eyes, and for the first time this morning, I saw fear in them. Not anything obvious, like the shaking terror that IÕve seen in the eyes of the other children all these years. No, itÕs something more subtle, lurking just beneath the surface. She probably doesnÕt even know I can see it. Whatever it is, I rather like it. SheÕs been spreading fear for years. She deserves her taste.

She hustled me out of the orphanage early, and told me to write and inform her when I would be returning. I set out for the Leaky Cauldron, and again was the first to arrive. This time I was greeted by a woman who called herself Professor Hopolloi, the Muggle Studies teacher. It struck me as odd that wizards would waste their time learning about Muggles, but I decided to keep my thoughts to myself. It would not be prudent to offend a professor I might study with in the future. I reassured myself, however, that such interest was not widespread among all wizards. After all, she seemed rather dull to me.

By 10, the various first year students from Muggle born families, most of whom I had seen last month, arrived with their parents. Professor Hopolloi led us all to a bus which brought us to KingÕs Cross. During the bus ride, I examined my ticket for the first time. It said that the Hogwarts Express would be taking us from the station to school at 11 oÕclock sharp, and would be departing from platform 9 and 3/4. I had only been to KingÕs cross once before, but clearly remembered that none of the platforms had had fractions in them. I assumed that their must be more magic involved somehow. 

I was proven correct at 10:30 when we arrived. The platform was actually hidden between platforms nine and ten. Professor Hopolloi helped us all load our luggage onto the train before she wished us a good ride and said sheÕd see us at school. She then disappeared with a loud crack. Dull though she may be, she still new her magic. 

The wizard families and the upperclassmen started to arrive while we were still loading the train. How I wanted to walk among them, introduce myself, and try and learn as much as I could, but my prudence restrained me, much to my advantage, I later discovered. None of the Muggle borns shared this particular desire. They all seemed rather afraid of the others, like fish out of water, and huddled in the same few compartments at the back of the train. I found myself in one with 3 boys and a girl. None of us knew each other, so no one said a word. I was the one to break the ice, giving them my name, and asking theirs. This I did mostly to make conversation and break the discomfort. I canÕt say I was really curious about them. IÕd been living among Muggles my entire life, even if my life had hardly been typical, and so I couldnÕt learn very much anyway. Still, I figured that if they were the first of their families in the school, they must be exceptionally talented. 

For once, I figured wrong. They were just plain Muggles. Run of the mill, normal, terribly _boring _Muggles who just so happened to have gotten a letter by owl a few months previous. Sure, they had made a few odd things happen earlier in their lives, but other than that, they hardly seemed magical. I chit-chatted nonetheless, speaking while spoken to, and trying to appear as earnest and friendly as possible. No sense in making enemies yet. Prudence is a virtue, IÕve always thought.

The whole train ride was rather dull, on the whole. It seemed to stretch for hours. When the others dozed off, I pulled out a book and read for a while. We didnÕt reach the station until early evening. The conductor told us to leave our luggage on the train. A tall, trim, weathered looking man called for the first years to gather to one side of the platform. He identified himself as Mr. Faunus, keeper of keys and grounds, and said that it was a tradition for the first years to travel to the castle by boat, and then proceeded to lead us along a winding path up into the mountains. 

Even now, I cannot find the words to describe my first sight of the castle. We rounded a bend at the top of a hill and suddenlyÉit was just there, perched on a mountaintop, tall, imposing, aloof. And, I thought, this will be home.

A fleet of small boats carried us across the lake into a small cave deep beneath the castle. We were greeted there by none other than Dumbledore, the transfigurations master I had met my first day in Diagon Alley. He, in turn, herded us upstairs through the main entrance hall and into a sort of waiting room. Once there, he officially welcomed us and told us that the start of term banquet would soon begin, but not before the Sorting Ceremony. This, he explained, was a ritual dating back to the first days of the school, which would place us in our House for the rest of our time at the school. Our house was like our family, he told us, and each was named for one of the school founders: Slytherin, Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, and Hufflepuff. 

He said plenty of other things as well, but by this point my nervousness had taken over. I barely noticed when he led all of us into the vast Great Hall, in front of the whole student body. I had to keep my wits about me. I didnÕt know what this Sorting would involve. 

Imagine how surprised I was when Dumbledore brought out a 3 legged stool and a ragged old hat. I was even more surprised when the hat started to sing. IÕd try and reproduce what it sang, but I donÕt think I would do it justice. It sang about the history of the school, and the 4 founders, and their 4 Houses, and how each took a different sort of person: Slytherin the cunning and pure, Ravenclaw the curious and intelligent, Gryffindor, the courageous and chivalrous, and Hufflepuff the patient and diligent.

No sooner had the hat finished than Dumbledore began calling us forward, one by one, in alphabetical order, placing the hat in each in turn. The hat, then, announced which House the student was to be placed in. I waited, eagerly, for my turn, not paying much attention to anything else.

When the old man finally called for ÒRiddle, Thomas,Ó I walked forward as casually as possible. As soon as he put the hat on my head, it started to whisper to me. For some reason, its words made an impression on me. I canÕt seem to get them out of my head.

ÒInteresting,Ó it said, Òvery very interesting. I could put you almost anywhere. Well, not Gryffindor. Too cautious, too cunning. DonÕt think youÕd fit well in Hufflepuff either. Your patience is boundless, goes with your caution, but, no I donÕt think so. Ravenclaw perhaps. Yes, yes I do believe youÕd like Ravenclaw. You have fine mind, perhaps the finest IÕve seen in centuries. But at the same time, you hardly seem a Ravenclaw. Brilliant, yes, but not curious for its own sake. Always cunning, always seeking a means to an end, and ambitious to boot. Looking to do great things. Slytherin, then? Slytherin will certainly put you on the path to greatness. But youÕre half blood. Salazar would never forgive me for putting a half blood in his House. I suppose it will just have to be RavenÉwait. Wait, what is that? The serpents tongue? It canÕt be. In a half blood? For the first time sinceÉbut that would make youÉNo, I must keep you out of Slytherin. You might fit in well there, perhaps too well, but if I put you elsewhere, maybe, just maybe, the blood will prove the weaker. Ravenclaw may dampen your ambition, but perhaps that would be for the better.Ó

ÒNo,Ó I thought, confused, a bit indignant. ÒThereÕs nothing wrong with ambition. All my life IÕve been put down, trampled, even when I knew great things lay ahead. If Slytherin will make me great, then by all means put me there.!Ó

ÒOh dear me. You do seem a perfect fit for Slytherin. As perfect as IÕve ever seen. But why does my conscience trouble me? Well, I must serve my purpose, regardless. SLYTHERIN!Ó It finally shouted aloud. I must have been up there for 2 straight minutes. It was a relief to be able to finally take my place. Yet, somehow, it made me uncomfortable. There was something in the way that the other Slytherins looked at me as I sat down.

The Sorting was soon finished, and the banquet began at last. Eager not to draw any more attention to myself, I turned my attention to eating and listening rather than talking. I immediately got the impression that I was the only even half blood in the whole House. The rest, even the first years, all seemed to know one another like cousins, which it turned out many of them were. And all of them came from pure wizarding families. That would explain why they had looked at me the way they did when I sat down. After all, the hat had said something about not wanting to put a half blood in Slytherin. 

The banquet seemed over in a flash, and then the Headmaster, Armando Dippet, stood up and gave some boring announcements. I was rather lost in my own thoughts, so I didnÕt pay much attention. When he had finished, an older boy led all of us down to our common room. It was located in one of the deep dungeons, behind a bare stonewall. Exhausted by the early rising and the long train ride, and more than a bit intimidated by my fellow students, I decided to come straight up to bed, and take the chance to write before I lost my privacy. 

Classes start tomorrow. I canÕt wait. Despite some snags, it has been a good day. I got to school, and was put into a respectable house, one that helps people to great things. Yes, this wonÕt be so bad after all. 


	5. 6 September

Disclaimer: I do not own Hogwarts, Tom Riddle, Albus Dumbledore or Armando Dippet, or most of the other names or places mentioned herein. They are the creations and property of JK Rowling. 

6 September

This has been the longest week of my life. Perhaps that has to do with the fact that it feels like the first week. It feels as if my entire life before this has somehow been a dream, or a fancy, or a bad joke, and that IÕve only just come to reality. 

We got our schedules on Monday. My first class was History of Magic, the one I had been most looking forward to. Sadly, it was also the most disappointing. The teacher, Professor Binns, is a ghost, and his lecture style is so boring I think I may be one too if I have to listen to him for seven whole years. Oh well, I suppose I can always teach myself.

Next was charms with the Ravenclaws, taught by a Professor Waffling, who also happened to be the Ravenclaw Head of House and a blatant favoritist. He knows his magic, though, so I suppose I can put up with it if need be.

The afternoon was long Herbology with Professor Spore, who literally wrote the book on the subject. Brilliant lecturer, too. I may end up enjoying Herbology more than I thought.

On Tuesday we got our first taste of Potions, taught by the deeply dull head of House Hufflepuff, Professor Stir. He must have been a Hufflepuff himself, because his approach to the subject was one of absolute plodding patience. ItÕs been a whole week and we havenÕt so much as lit a fire under a cauldron yet. Potions intrigues me, however, so I may end up teaching myself that, too.

We spent Wednesday night in the Astronomy tower with the Hufflepuffs, under the watchful eye of Aquilia Lestrange, our own Head. She is by far my favorite professor so far, even if Astronomy is not quite to my liking. She is probably the most brilliant, and the most powerful of the teachers here. She suffers fools poorly, but those who earn her respect are blessed indeed. I think I have, but IÕm not sure. Only time will tell.

Today brought our last new class, Transfigurations with Dumbledore, whom I found out is the Gryffindor Head. I almost wonder why the man is allowed to speak, much less teach. My first impression of him was as a bit of a dullard. I was wrong. He is a total fool, and probably more than a bit mad. He seems a bit out of touch, in fact. He knows his subject, at least, and I still canÕt shake the uncanny suspicion that he knows something or sees something that he isnÕt sharing. It bothers me. IÕll be keeping a very close eye on him. 

All in all, IÕve enjoyed all of my classes so far, though some more or less than others. The preparation I did during the summer helped a great deal. It may be the only thing keeping me in Slytherin, as a matter of fact. The wary looks I saw on the first day have become glares of outright hostility. No one has said anything, of course, nor has anyone been anything but civil, if cold, when they had to speak. ItÕs obvious, however, what this is about: my blood. As it turns out, my perception was correct: there isnÕt a drop of Muggle blood in the entire House, save of course for my own. One of the peculiarities that the House looks for, I suppose. But then, why me? Why put a halfblood, raised by Muggles, in a house of militant purebloods? It just doesnÕt make any sense. Maybe IÕll ask Professor Lestrange. In the mean time, however, the weekend has begun, and homework calls. 

*

a/n: apologies for any glaring errors. Both this and the preceding were written at a very late hour. 


	6. 31 October

Disclaimer: The places and characters mentioned are almost all the creations and property of JK Rowling.

31 October

I really need to make the time more often. Keeping a diary is good for me. It letÕs me put everything down on paper, think about it, make sense of it all. But where does one find the time? Maybe now, now that I finally seem to be on top of things, I can finally start writing again.

This last month and a half has been hectic, to say the least. You would think that, they would start us out slowly, letting us gradually get into the swing of a new school, a new environment, but that just isnÕt so. Instead, weÕve been buried in work since the very first week. Some of the other Slytherins say itÕs because of the Muggle borns, that thereÕs just so much background to give them that if the teachers moved slowly weÕd never learn anything. Never having seen any magic (or at least, not knowing what it was) before a few months ago, I see their point. On the other hand, inundating new students, be they Muggle or magic, canÕt be all that helpful.

For my own part, I havenÕt found the work all that challenging, or even that interesting, but still very time consuming. Between dozens of pages of reading, an hour of regular homework nightly, plus at least four feet of essays due every week, itÕs a wonder I found time to breathe. It might have been more bearable if it were a little less _boring_. Still, things are starting to slacken now that everyone is finally on the same page (except for a few hopeless dunderheads, who probably never will be.) Now I have time to return to my own projects.

Speaking of which, I talked to Professor Lestrange, my head of house, just last week. I like her a great deal. Powerful, capable, and from what the other Slytherins say, from a good family. IÕve been working hard to earn her respect since the first week, and I think I may have succeeded. I mentioned to her how bored IÕd been feeling in all of my classes, and she recommended that I pursue some independent study. She gave me a lengthy reading list on books in all of my subjects, enough to keep me busy through Christmas at least. I started going through them today, as a matter of fact, and have already been fascinated by what I found. Just today, I mastered the Furnuclus curse and the Summoning Charm, material that most fourth years canÕt handle. You would never think I was a Muggle born.

That was something else I broached with Professor Lestrange. I told her how I felt a bit uncomfortable in Slytherin, as the only Muggle born and all, and sort of felt as though didnÕt really accept me. She just got a steely, cold look in her eyes, and said ÒYou may have Muggle blood, but never let anyone call you a Muggle born.Ó I thanked her for her time and left.

Later that night at dinner, I saw her talking to Dumbledore, of all people. It surprised me at first, because itÕs common knowledge that they donÕt see eye to eye (as if an idiot like him could ever be in total agreement with a genius like her.) What surprised me more is how they both kept looking towards the Slytherin table. I could swear they were looking straight at me. I wonder what that could mean? 


	7. 20 December

Disclaimer: I don't own it, as you well know. JK Rowling does, and she should. I'm not making any money off of it, though, so no worries.

20 December

I made the most wonderful discovery yesterday: I can stay here at Hogwarts for Christmas break! The sooner I can put off seeing that horrid old woman again, the better. Most of the other students have gone home. There are a few kids from other houses left, but I'm the only Slytherin. I honestly expected to catch some heat for that, but no one has given me any trouble for the last month or two. I think that's partly because I've been scoring so many points for us in class, and partly because the prefects have been coming down hard on anyone who does. Whether this is out of the goodness of their hearts or, as I suspect, Prof Lestrange has something to do with it, I really don't care. I'm grateful to whoever it is, though.

Now that the others have been forced to accept me, I've actually managed to make a few friends. At first, they just came to tap my brain-power for their homework, but as we've talked more and more, I think they've found me to be more of a kindred spirit than they thought. They certainly didn't expect me to share their feelings on Muggles, but if anyone has a reason to dislike them, it's definitely me. Strangely enough, most of the ones who've stuck around are from the purest of the purebloods: Antonius Malfoy, whose family has been on the school's board of governors for a century; Elladora Black, second daughter in a large family of old wizard nobles; Rasputin Lestrange, nephew of the estimable Aquilia; and also one Tiberius Snape, whose family isn't particularly noble or wealthy, but is certainly as pure as they come. They're all quite capable at magic in their own right, and seem to stay in my company of their own free will. If nothing else, they will be a useful source of information about the wizarding world outside the school.

As it is, they are second only to the books that Prof. Lestrange has given me. I've been getting through faster even than she expected. It is all just so fascinating. So far, I'm cursing past the level of most seventh years, I can transfigure animate objects into completely different animate objects (wouldn't Dumbledore be surprised if he knew), a feat some of our professors haven't managed, and I've successfully brewed a Polyjuice potion, and even used it to tranform into a Hufflepuff first-year by the name of Abbot and managed to get the password and location of their common room. Useful information, and exciting in the getting. Also included, of course, were a large number of astronomy books, which have quite enflamed my interest in the subject. Apparently, wizard astronomers don't merely map the stars, but even the void between., and can draw upon it for use in very powerful spells. I get the feeling that this isn't a commonly accepted practice, though, considering some of the things I've read and the fact that we've never heard about it in class. Still, the forbidden nature of this "dark" magic only makes it all the more fascinating. 

The only subject she didn't give me any books on was History of Magic, much to my disappointment. Still, I'm almost finished with the books I have. Maybe I could ask for some in the next batch. 

A/N- sorry to have taken so long to update. I'm finally finished with school for this semester, so I'm hoping to get back into the swing of writing. Special thanks to Marauder3Moony for reminding me I still had work to do.


End file.
